


First Times

by SylverLining



Category: Gargoyles (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:44:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylverLining/pseuds/SylverLining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This world is full of new things, and everyone has at least one they're passionate about. Some brief looks at the Manhattan clan discovering parts of the 20th century that fascinate, inspire, terrify, and most of all, give hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With the lights out, it's less dangerous

After the adventure in the kitchen, Brooklyn was well prepared for innocuous-looking things with knobs and dials to explode with light and energy. He watched over Hudson's shoulder until he picked up the gist of the box whose glass lens showed colorful, exciting things he never imagined. For a few hours it was amazing. Beyond magic, it was exhilarating and mesmerizing and very, very educational. He learned more from the TV about this new world than gliding above and watching from a distance could ever teach him. And it was bright and colorful and loud and fun.

But after a while, he realized something. The fun wasn't really meant for him. He frowned as he watched humans sitting around talking about things he didn't understand, with unfamiliar phrases like "political agenda" or "unconstitutional." Loud, intense advertisements for things he should buy to make his life better - or would, if he could admit to the world that he existed. Shoes for people who could walk down a street without being screamed at. Cars. Vacations in the sun. Sitcoms to make him laugh - if only he got any of the jokes. Creams for people whose skin wasn't stone half the time.

And soon he felt his excitement turn to something cold and tired. He didn't belong. All of These Messages were meant for someone else, he was just intercepting them by mistake. All of them just told him what he already knew, that there was a huge, wild, noisy world of happy humans - and he wasn't invited to the party.

For a world that looked so much different than he remembered, it really hadn't changed that much.

Frustrated and disappointed, Brooklyn was about to turn away, shut the thing off and try to shake himself out of this funk that felt uncomfortably familiar - when he hit the wrong button. He pressed "channel down" instead of "off," and it turned to a station he'd never seen, with 3 letters on the screen. But then the music started, and it made Brooklyn stop cold.

_"With the lights out, it's less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us..."_

A human. Singing. But not the clean, cheery music he'd heard so far in commercial jingles and TV show themes. Eyes squeezed shut and long blonde hair falling into his face, the young human clung to the microphone like a drowning man to a life preserver. Face strained and voice rough, tight with urgency, as if nothing in the world mattered except getting out these words that burned, spitting them out like bloody teeth or broken glass. This was music, this was emotion Brooklyn had never heard - except in the anguished cries of war, or in waking up to find himself almost alone, his world a mess of crushed stone, blood and dust.

So he sat very still and listened. And the things this human with the striped sweater and screaming guitar (oh, he liked that new sound) said - God, but Brooklyn could relate.

 _Stupid and contagious?_ He knew that feeling, now more than ever. And so did this guy. That's what really got him - this human sang like he knew. It was genuine in a world of impossibly clean, shiny and fake. It was painful and raw and real.

The song was over too soon (" _oh, denial..._ ") and Brooklyn didn't hear a word of what came after. The talking heads were back, and he had to go anyway, it was time to survey their new home for threats that came from within instead of outside. So he stepped out of the room like a human walking in a dream instead of stone, head reeling, feeling like he'd just stepped off a roller coaster (or might make that comparison once he found out what one was). Dazed and overwhelmed again, but this time in a good way. The best way.

It meant he wasn't alone. He wasn't the only person in the entire world who felt too many things at once - frustrated, alone, angry, scared, alienated, envious, confused... and now, hopeful. Rock guitars and lyrics that said the things he couldn't say. They meant he was a little more okay. He might be stupid and contagious, but he wasn't alone. There were still things for him in this new world, and there were still people who would understand. Some of them were his clan. Some of them loved him.

And he could do this. There was an entire world of wonders and horrors and hopes. He'd keep looking until he found more of them. And he'd start with more MTV.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for introspection of what was essentially assisted suicide on a Disney Channel series. Good times.

Goliath had a lot of catching up to do. They all did, of course, in a multitude of ways. His were largely practical. When it came to protecting his new home and the millions therein, he had to learn fast. Humans could move much more quickly than they could before, even on horseback. They could harm and kill from far greater ranges, with much more lethality. They could even fly, in machines or floating fortresses to rain down destruction from above. Even with wings, there was no escaping them.

And they _were_ inescapable. Their sheer numbers alone - millions instead of dozens, even the hundreds when Castle Wyvern had been filled to bursting during festivals or sieges. Even though they weren't directly living in close proximity anymore, the human influence had never been more omnipresent.

So the first thing he sought out in their new home above the police precinct was a quiet place, removed and secluded, where he could go to be alone, be silent and just think. That was the most precious and rarest quality he'd found in this new world, someplace away from the noise and fury. This entire city gave him a headache. And yet he couldn't turn his back on it. He'd defend it from itself, headache or no. Goliath needed to learn about it, to make up for a thousand years of lost time, catch up on the tumultuous events that had preceded them on this new continent and century.

  
And there was only one place he knew that had both sides of what he needed: quiet and learning.

But it was with some reservation that he asked Elisa if such a place was open to them - after all, books were rare and precious treasures. Even more valuable than the contents of the castle vault, though many were protected there, was the library. He didn't actually expect one to be within his reach anymore.

But when he asked, she smiled and opened a door. "Books, that's all? You're refreshingly easy to please."

For the first time since they'd left the castle, Goliath started to feel at home. Not much of his millennium had survived the years he'd spent sleeping, but he felt a mixture of joy and relief that libraries were one of the things that had. Say what you would about the merits of thin squares of plastic called 'discs' (weren't discs supposed to be round?) that held hundreds upon hundreds of spells. Nothing compared to holding a book in his hands, smelling the printer's ink, turning the pages, feeling the paper that was smooth and more delicate than any he'd ever felt.

But even that was a bit off-putting, and some of his glow began to fade.

 

The parchment of Wyvern had been rough, thick stuff, pulpy and crude when it was actual paper at all. Most things, save for the most revered spellbooks or Bibles, were scrawled on vellum or even untreated sheepskin. Not at all fancy, but durable, and not much risk of damage.. These slick, smooth, fragile things were clearly meant for small, soft human hands that didn't end in steely claws. Now he was afraid of ruining the books he'd been so glad to see, accidentally bending a spine or punching a hole in a thin page.

Still, he was willing to be as gentle and patient as necessary, until they told him what he wanted to know.

Nobody needed to tell Goliath that times had changed. He was painfully aware of that, constantly. It was a strange feeling, like being eternally slightly off-balance. Like something was off in his equilibrium, and he hadn't felt his feet connect with solid ground since the Magus cast his spell that one last time.

He'd fully expected not to wake up.

"Until the castle rose above the clouds." Absurd. It meant forever. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have thought that asking for that was anything less than assisted suicide. He'd gone willingly. His clan was dead. His mate, so much rubble and dust. His entire life, gone up in smoke and cut bowstrings and hammers that gleamed in bright sunlight.

And now, his mentor and oldest friend, three still-living, precious young ones, and their faithful beast, were gone as well. Cold stone at night, never to move again.

So he moved them gently back into the places they'd held in life atop the castle walls, forever to guard its battlements until the wind and rain wore away their edges, and bit by bit returned them to smooth rock and dust, over an eternity.

And then he followed. Where there was no clan, there was nothing. His old leader had said many times the old familiar adage - that a gargoyle could no longer stop defending the castle than breathing the air.

Well, the castle was still here. They weren't. And without them, Goliath couldn't breathe.

Nobody had been more surprised than he that oblivion hadn't been forever. ("You're awake. You're alive! We're together again!") A second chance. A miracle. A new life, after his old one had ended along with so many others. He would not waste this gift they'd been given, of more time together, and a new castle to protect, with endless wonders to discover. New friends.

Still, it came at a price. And it was the little things that reminded him when he was so close to forgetting even for a moment. Things like the smoothness of paper reminded him of everything they'd gained and lost, and exactly how alien this new world was. Or maybe they were the strange ones now. Strangers in a strange land, as one of these new books so well put it.

He realized he hadn't actually turned a page in nearly an hour, and smiled to himself. He'd come down here to read, and instead just done a lot of thinking. He still wasn't sure to exactly what conclusion he'd come, just that his old friend with the new name Hudson was right again - "home is the six of us, wherever we're together."

Goliath looked up as the door opened, and the smile grew. It was seven, now.

"Thank you, Elisa."

"Don't mention it. Find everything you needed?"

"That and more."

**Author's Note:**

> I can't be the only one to think Brooklyn would resonate with grunge and all it represents. The feeling of not belonging, the rebellion and dissatisfaction with the world, all of these churning feelings inside, and how music ultimately brings people together with shared feelings. It connects you. It makes you brave. It might even give you the courage to put on a black leather jacket and hit the town on a sweet bike.


End file.
